


Lucky Boy

by grandprincesscromwell



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, semi-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandprincesscromwell/pseuds/grandprincesscromwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daario has a nightmare, but Daenerys is the one who needs comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Boy

Daario stumbles to his knees, then manages a look up at the crowd, roaring all around him. He knows what will happen, before the blow has a chance to land. In an instant, he will feel the hot separation of his flesh as the Arakh slices the skin between his shoulder blades. In an instant-- and there it is. As the Dothraki warrior screams behind him, ripping the sword upward through his back he wakes with a jolt. He reaches to touch his bleeding, mangled back and finds it whole and healed, though the searing pain of the wound remains. He takes a deep, shaky breath and turns to see Daenerys staring at him, lying on her side. 

"My Queen" he murmurs as he lays back down beside her, on his shoulder to avoid laying on the still-screaming skin of his back. "I'm sorry I woke you." She shakes her head gently. "What were you dreaming of?" She reaches over to brush some strands of hair off his clammy brow. He closes his eyes for a moment, loving the feeling of her fingers on his skin, loving the smell of her long, pale hair across the pillow, and the sensation of her, lying so close to him. "Old battles. Nothing of importance." She moves to slide her hand off of his face and he catches her fingers and holds them to his cheek, turning his head to kiss them. He opens his eyes and finds her frowning. He sighs. "There was a fight I almost lost." he laughs. "I suppose there were others I almost lost, but there was only one I really believed I was staring death in the face." He kisses her fingers again, gently, almost thoughtlessly. "I dream of it sometimes. It always feels very real, and I wake up before the end, but..." He doesn't realize he has trailed off until she squeezes his hand. "I never wake up in time to avoid the pain." He tries to smile at her, but the pain is still in him and he hates having this dream. 

She leans in and places her forehead against his. "I'm glad you survived." She presses her lips to his, hard, like she always does. She never learned how to kiss like a normal woman. He thought it was strange at first, that he should have to teach her tenderness. As he got used to her, the fierceness of her, the strength, he was surprised how much of herself she seemed to owe to her husband, the great Khal. But then, she had married very young. And while it had seemed that she and Drogo had loved each other deeply (another surprise), tenderness, gentleness, and subtlety were not words that existed in the Dothraki language. Drogo had taught her passion and intensity. Daario was very grateful to him for that. In fact, no matter how much Daario thought it would benefit her to have a lover who showed her a soft touch, he would never so much as comment on her kiss. Her kiss filled his belly with heat. She kissed him like she was always about to send him off to battle. Her kiss made him feel like his strange, small life was suddenly filled with meaning. She gave him value. 

She pulls back from the kiss and rolls onto her back, staring up at the high ceiling through the gauzy fabric draped across the top of the bed. "I hope it's not an omen." She's not really talking to him, he knows. "It's not an omen. I never dream of the future, my queen. I only ever dream of the past." She doesn't look at him. He wonders, suddenly, if he called out in his sleep. He wonders if he sounded weak. "The past can tell us a great deal about the future" she says, still not looking at him. He wonders if the sense of dread he always has when he wakes from this dream is anything like what she feels every day. He can feel the heat of her anxiety increasing, now that she's lying awake in the darkness, thinking. 

"The fight was not fair." He turns over on his back and he can feel the sand sliding under his skin, though he's lying on silk sheets. He tries to fill his hollow, pained voice with the force of his love for her. He tries to sound strong and unconcerned. He can transport her far from her fears and her doubts, for a moment, if he tries hard enough. He can do that for her, even if that's all he can do. "There were five Dothraki screamers and poor little me. I was already gaining some fame by that point, but I don't think anyone expected me to win that fight. These Dothraki bastards were each at least twice my size, and older, and more experienced to boot. I took three of them out in the first five minutes out of sheer panic. I don't think I breathed until the first three were down and bleeding. After that the crowd was on my side and that helped me. I heard them cheering for me all around and I started to slow down. I could take two Dothraki. I could do that. I knew it. So I took my time, made it a better fight, a more interesting fight for the crowd so they would love me. I was a stupid kid. I got the fourth one down, this giant with an arakh in each hand. I spotted his weakness and then I played with him for a while. When I got bored, I sliced his wrist and then his neck. His guard was too wide, used to blocking bigger targets. I slipped in. Then I turned to the last guy. I shouldn't have saved this guy for last and I think I knew it was a mistake once I really started looking at him. His braid was down to his knees. He didn't want to play with me, wasn't interested in what the crowd thought. the killing was enough for him. He just wanted to kill me. And I couldn't spot a weakness. I couldn't find a way in. I was getting tired from dodging one killer blow after another, and he didn't seem to be tired of landing them. Eventually I made a mistake, and I got turned around and tripped. I was on my knees, with my back to him, and I was expecting to have my head separated from my shoulders but somehow he didn't take the opportunity. He sliced me up the length of my back. It was the single most excruciating thing I had ever felt, but I wasn't dead. And I didn't know how close to dead I was, so I decided I'd at least die fighting. I could hear the crowd roaring all around me, but I couldn't tell anymore if they were cheering for me, or for him, or just for blood. I let them disappear. I stood up and turned around. I must have been a complete mess, my back hanging open, and bleeding all over the ground. He smiled at me, the bastard. He took a step back, like he was going to let me charge him because he knew he'd already won, and he stepped on one of his dead friends and slipped. He went down like a damned tree, and he landed on an upturned arakh. It went through the back of his neck and he died before I could even get to him to finish him off. After that, they called me 'Lucky Boy' for years."

"That must have bothered you." She's turned over on her side again, looking at him, her pale eyes reflecting moonlight. "It didn't bother me at all. It was true." He smiles over at her. "It still is." She smiles back, at last, the doubt no longer casting a shadow on her beautiful face. She slides towards him across the bed and lays her head on his chest. After a few moments, her breathing slows and she's sleeping in his arms. She's safe and far from worry now, at least until the sun rises. And if he can do that for her, for as long as he can do that for her, he's content. "Lucky Boy" he whispers to himself, the pain in his back a forgotten ghost. "Lucky, lucky boy".


End file.
